Many random thoughts today. Where, indeed, are the transparent palaces we were meant to build?

Friends (-Adam Zagajewski)

My friends wait for me,
ironic, smiling sadly.

Where are the transparent palaces
we meant to build—

their lips say,
their aging lips.

Don’t worry, friends,
those splendid kites

still soar in the autumn air,
still take us

to the place where harvests begin,
to bright days—

the place where scarred eyes
open.